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Sleet Renga

All day, the houses wept
for winter, bride of the sky,
scrubbing the earth bare.

Like juncos we chase the cold,
like sparrows we shake in the hedge.

With snow and quickening breath
the night devises to shock you:
I am the I am

pants a blinking neon sign.
Hares sleep rough in the salt marsh.

Trucks gouge the asphalt,
waking streets that will absorb
their blackened tributaries.

Red pines on the riverbank
drill into a grapefruit sky.

Daniel E. Pritchard is a poet, translator, and essayist as well as the founding editor of The Critical Flame, an online journal of essays, criticism, and interviews. His work has appeared recently in Salamander Magazine, Pangyrus, Response: A Journal of New Writing, and elsewhere. He lives in Greater Boston with his daughter.

1 Comment

  1. Anonymous

    I love this poem. I like how your word imagery blends into nature, and back into humanity.
    Did you have a good experience with your publisher?


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